


Old Bonds

by motleystitches (furius)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Exhibitionism, Light Bondage, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Porn, maybe canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured by the elves, Thorin is chained at the foot of Thranduil's throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Bonds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt.

“The first time I met you,” Thranduil said to Thorin, “you stood at the foot a throne. Do not be bitter, for nothing has changed.”

The elves of Mirkwood had lively eyes, but respected their king, so it was only elvish glances that Thorin felt on his body. They had stripped him of his weapons and perhaps thinking his clothes could be weapons, now had him in his skin in front of their king.

“I am colder, I think.”

“That is easily amended.” Thranduil smiled. He had a lovely mouth on a beardless face. The curve of his lips had remained distracting.

The wood crackled in the braziers and flames leapt as the elves added more wood.

Thorin began to sweat a little. A bead of moisture slid down down his chest. Thranduil’s eyes followed the path until it became trapped in the hair.

“A hundred years,” Thranduil said. “Would it be such hardship when I would cloth you royally in gold and silver?”

The chains around Thorin’s neck, wrists, ankles, were indeed gold and silver, and fine elven work. Thorin’s not ashamed of his nakedness, but Thranduil’s voice flowed like honey, and seemed to caress him as if they they were alone and a hundred years younger.

“You would not hunger and you would not want,” the elf continued. “For I would not bear to see you suffer.” He wet his lip with his tongue as if they had no audience. “I never could.”

“What is lost cannot be restored,” Thorin answered him, bitter still. “What is made cannot be unmade. I am not ageless.”

“But you did promise a king all your years and I will command you to hold to your promise, for the safety of my kingdom, if nothing else, for you’ve stopped telling me your secrets for many years.”

Thorin did not know what the Mirkwood court made of Thranduil’s words. His companions were gone. Mahal had deserted him. Not long ago, the elves had laughed and stripped and bound him to take him before their king. Thranduil- always serene, always with an edge of laughter in his bright eyes. Now Thorin knew it was an edge of mockery, that was all.

“My secrets were never yours.” Thorin was not as tall, but his strength could match an elf, especially when they did not expect his movement. When he struggled, if not for the shortening chains that held him fast to the rings at the foot of Thranduil’s throne, he would’ve freed himself. He gasped when he was brought closer and Thranduil’s long fingered hand, quicker than a snake, darted and grasped him.

“One of it is mine,” Thranduil said. Thorin did not dare move, though he cursed his treacherous body as the hand on him moved, wounding arousal through his body, binding him to stillness more tightly than the chains that held him. He dared not look around, or look down. He did not wish to look at Thranduil and face his triumph, except the elf had leaned closer and said, “Though I think I was mistaken, for the years have not made you less fair.”

“They have made you more cruel,” Thorin could no longer suppress the movement of his hips. He rocked forward into Thranduil’s hand, the calluses dry and harsh and wonderful. “I-” He wanted to weep, but he had exhausted his tears long ago. The humiliation of begging for a loaf of bread or a plow to fix was surely worse than this. Nevertheless, “Must we have an audience?” he said in a small voice, hoping against hope no one else heard.

Thranduil had no such concerns. “Nothing I do is a secret from my court. They know that you’re mine.” His thumb wiped over the wet tip of Thorin’s cock, now hard and straining for release. “Turn around.” He let go and pushed at Thorin’s shoulders until he faced the idling court. The music had not stopped. Elvish whispers could be too low to hear, but except for one gasp and movement of a golden head, no one appeared to be paying him attention.

The chains around Thorin’s arms pulled him back until Thranduil hugged Thorin against him, his long thighs parting to bracket him. “Most do no like dwarves,” Thranduil whispered in his ear, “but as a king is allowed his quirks, his curiosities, his treasures.” His other hand reached for Thorin again, this time the tips of his long fingers trailed with maddening slowness upward his groin until they closed around him. Thorin moaned, no longer caring, moving against the snug circle around his shaft. Thranduil smelled of wet stone and metal; the fabric of his clothed arm rubbed against the sensitive points on his chest with every moment.

He finished with a long sigh, spilling into Thranduil’s hand, overflowing into the grooves and furrows of the carvings on the floor. He blinked, staring at it. His breathing was still quick, his muscles filled with a sharp pleasant ache. There was a hard length against the small of his back, but after a moment it went away.

“I missed you,” Thranduil said into his ear, his words swift but lower than before. He let Thorin turn within his arms. The flutter of pale rose had tinged Thranduil’s cheeks so that he appeared drunk. He reached for the goblet beside him, but did not hold it. Instead, his pale fingers were wet when he held them up to Thorin’s mouth. Thorin opened his lips for two to enter. He suckled them to the knuckle, the wine sweet on his tongue. “Dorwinion,” Thranduil said wistfully, “an old vintage.”

Thorin’s knees weakened as he was pressed more tightly against Thranduil’s body.

“We do not kneel, Thorin son of Thrain,” Thranduil said, hinting at what Thorin had not dared to remember. His legs wanted to spread themselves even from reminder. “I have a bed.”

“In a bedchamber, or in another hall?” Thorin asked. This time, the echo of the loud smack did turn heads. His buttocks burned from the force of it.

Thranduil touched wonderingly at the skin where it was fairer for being unexposed to the elements, though now reddened. He then stood at Thorin’s side and concealed the sight from the view of his court.


End file.
